Grip (Start of the story)

The Grip

Big Bro’s sclera burned from parting the right eyelid to perspiration and nuclear level light beams magnified by a windshield. Squinting brows could not block out the harshly magnified beams that projected odd shapes against thoughts of Jim Bean and vomit. He tried to focus on the thin skin’s network of cascading blood cells and “floaters,” his name the name for barely visible clear strands of protein making in pupil tissue. Slight twists of his vascular forearms excrete minute beads that glisten as they slowly grow and fall following veins to a plastic armrest. It was high noon and every car on the block blessed with dark paint was hot enough to cook a steak on the hood. Inside the dark blue sedan everything was coming to rise like cup cakes in an easy bake. The idea of spending one more hour parked without shade made Big Bro turn in his seat shielding his face from an invisible bon fire wind.